Modus Operandi
by Gamma Orionis
Summary: Pansy is working as an assassin for the Death Eaters, and highly skilled at her work. So long as she's killing strangers. When she's assigned someone she knows, things get much more complicated. Written for hamimifk for femmefest.


**Title:** Modus Operandi  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Pairing(s):** Pansy/Hermione, Hermione/Ginny  
**Summary:** Pansy is working as an assassin for the Death Eaters, and highly skilled at her work. So long as she's killing strangers. When she's assigned someone she knows, things get much more complicated.  
**Warnings:** Non-con, bondage, exhibitionism, cuckolding (or whatever the f/f equivalent of that is?)  
**Word Count:** 3 900  
**Author's Notes:** Written for hamimifk for femmfest, a femmeslash exchange fest on Livejournal. I loved the idea of a Ninja!AU, so this is sort of a… liberal interpretation of that prompt, rather dark and set in a Voldemort-wins type of situation. I hope you like it – I had a blast writing it!

)O(

Pansy had never questioned her own decision to join the Death Eaters. She had scorned Draco for his weakness when he had had his little breakdown in sixth year over it – it was an honour to work for such a prestigious cause. She thought that it showed a lack of ambition to distance oneself from a course that had so quickly and thoroughly taken over the world.

And while Draco could be a bit weak and watery at times, Pansy prided herself on her ambition and dedication.

She would have had to be an idiot not to join the Death Eaters.

She had risen quickly through their ranks – not quickly enough for her own satisfaction, but quickly enough that she had barely rounded her twentieth birthday when she was taking the Dark Mark and being sent on increasingly dangerous missions. It put her in her element, for there was nothing that she loved more than the admiration of her fellow Death Eaters, and how could they help but admire such a young girl who was going so far?

And if Pansy's morals occasionally made her twinge with guilt… well. Inconvenient morals were just another thing that one needed to overcome if one wanted to make an impact on the world.

Pansy had some skill at repressing any sense of guilt that might trouble her. She had done it since her school days – even at the time, she had known that she was an unpleasant person, and that she could be over-harsh on people, but she didn't trouble herself by feeling bad about what she did or said. Guilt was of no use to anyone, after all. That was a mantra she repeated to herself on the night of her first murder, when her victim's corpse lay splayed before her –_don't feel guilty. It's of no use. It won't help you, and it won't help him._

And after that, with every repetition of that series of affirmations, Pansy had taught herself to commit more and more serious crimes (_and yes, there were crimes more serious than murder_) with less and less remorse. There came a time, even, when she was quite sure that she had taught herself never to feel guilt at all.

And then Pansy received notice that she was to kill Hermione Granger.

The message arrived at the door of her flat, as all her assignments did, in a nondescript white envelope, unsigned and unmarked, sealed with a dot of black wax. _Quaint_, Pansy thought, while she tore it open. The Death Eaters always seemed to have a taste for the old-fashioned.

Pansy settled in her armchair with the letter and a mug of tea, as easily as a _normal_ person might settle down to read the Sunday _Prophet_. These envelopes were commonplace to her now – a regular part of her life, and not one about which she made much fuss anymore. She tore the envelope along the side instead of bothering to break the wax off, and she sipped her tea as she took the paper out.

There were no trappings of a letter on it – there never were. No _Dear Pansy_, no _How are you today_, no _Sincerely_. It was more like a form than a real letter. A name at the top. A date by which the assassination had to be carried out. An address. A few brief, clinical instructions and a simple description of appearance. And a tiny, inked drawing of the Dark Mark.

This was, Pansy realized, as she looked down at the paper and felt her stomach slowly tighten with surprise and – _was it?_ – fear, the first time that she had ever been told to kill someone that she knew.

Pansy was used to seeing her victims as faceless, lifeless dolls. Thinking of them as people with families and friends and dreams and lives ahead of them made a clean kill difficult, and so Pansy thought only about those things that were absolutely necessary for her to know to kill them. Their appearance. Where they would be at their most vulnerable. The position of their jugular veins.  
And that had always worked perfectly.

But _how_, Pansy thought, setting down her mug and tipping her head back, closing her eyes, was she going to be able to keep her mind clear of difficult thoughts when the person she was meant to kill had gone to school with her?

There was a part of Pansy that wanted to believe that the Hermione Granger whose name was written so clearly across the top of her paper was not the same Hermione Granger who had been in her potions class, who Pansy had tormented and who had tormented her right back, albeit in less overt ways. She could pretend that the woman she was going to kill was someone who she had never met before, and who simply happened to share the unfortunate appearance and name of Pansy's old schoolmate. But she didn't really believe that, and even if she had, she knew that there would come a moment when she would have to look into her victim's face. And when she did that, she wouldn't be able to pretend that it was a stranger.

_Don't let it stop you_, Pansy told herself, and she dug her nails roughly into the palms of her hands. The sharp bursts of pain were a reminder to focus on the present, not get caught up in the emotions of the future.

_You don't know her anymore_, she thought. _You don't know anything about her. She could be anyone now – just because you were in her classes at Hogwarts, doesn't make her any less of a stranger._

But it did.

Oh, it did.

)O(

Pansy tried to avoid even thinking that she was going to kill Hermione Granger while she made preparations. She mapped out the best route to her home – the one where she would be seen by the fewest number of people, yet would appear the least suspicious to those who did see her – and pretended that she was going to kill someone entirely different. She practiced her duelling spells – one never knew what they were going to need, after all – and told herself that she was going to be fighting a particularly talented stranger, not the girl who had always been at the top of her class. And on the night that the letter had specified Pansy was to carry out the assassination on, while Pansy dressed in plain, dark clothes that would be easy to move in and slipped her wand into her pocket so it lay flat against her leg, ready for use, she whispered, "You don't know her," over and over to herself, perhaps sounding crazy, but preferring that to stewing in pre-emptive guilt.

The address that Pansy had been given was a small, rather plain house that she wouldn't have thought much of if she hadn't already known that she was going to kill one of its occupants. She doubted anyone would have paid any attention to it – or what might be going on in it – if they just happened to be walking down the street. If there was a commotion, Pansy expected no one to be curious. Neighbours would think that the occupants were watching a film or having a party. Strangers wouldn't even notice.  
But Pansy didn't expect there to be a commotion.

She waited until late at night – not her usual practice, for people who happened to look were apt to pay more attention to strangers after dark, but Pansy wanted Hermione to be asleep when she made her move. Unless Hermione had changed quite substantially over the years, Pansy – even at her best – doubted that she would have an easy time in a duel against her.

She started out some distance away from the house, walking with a purposeful but not hurried gait through the city, taking several turns so that she would lose anyone who might happen to be interested in her. The walking gave her something to do other than sit in her flat and think. Reading flashing neon signs occupied her eyes, and keeping track of where she was occupied her mind.

It was nearly three in the morning when she arrived at Hermione Granger's house.

The street was empty, but Pansy knew better than to believe that that meant she was safe. A cracked curtain could be the difference between a smooth operation and a minor disaster. Anyone who happened to see, and to wonder why a young woman was going into someone else's house at this hour of night, would be a weakness in Pansy's iron-clad methods.

She walked past Hermione's house without slowing or glancing at it, then turned without changing pace into an alley several doors down. Glancing around carefully without breaking stride, Pansy could see a space up ahead where she would be shielded from any of the windows' views – a blank wall on one side of her, several large rubbish bins on the other, and just far enough down the alley that the side of the houses would hide her from the windows across the street.

As soon as she reached that spot, Pansy's demeanour changed – she was no longer being nonchalant; now her job was to get to Hermione Granger's house as quickly as possible, and without being seen. Away from the streetlamps, she had a better chance of being missed than she had on the main street.

She dropped to all fours, working her way along the ground at the base of the back houses' walls, moving like a dog so that if someone caught a glimpse of her in the shadows, they might think that was what she was. It was here, in this position – crouched on the ground, knowing that she was safe, or as close to safe as she ever could be – that Pansy felt the most at ease. Here, she didn't worry about who she was going to be killing. Her brain had gone into autopilot, her body following a series of instructions that she had memorized years ago, when she was first learning how to kill.

Pansy straightened when she reached Hermione Granger's house, keeping her back flat against the wall. She took a moment to take stock of her surroundings – no movement. No lights on in the house across the alley, and their curtains were drawn. She had reached her target. Now it was simply a matter of finishing the assassination.

She pulled out her wand – the first time she had to use it. Muggle methods were more thorough in some things – in being untraceable, most importantly – but magic made things easier when it came time for the final steps of a kill: the break-in, and the murder itself.

The lock for the back door clicked open easily when Pansy pointed her wand at it – if Hermione Granger had erected spells to keep herself safe, they had clearly not extended to making sure that _Alohomora_ would not work on her back door. Pansy supposed that she had probably gone through some sort of magical barrier somewhere on the street that prevented people from Apparating inside it. This was why she walked, Pansy thought, managing a small smile as the door swung silently open.

It opened into the kitchen, and Pansy took a moment once inside to take stock of her surroundings. There were stairs leading up, which Pansy started for automatically – after all, Hermione Granger _had_ to be in bed at this hour – but she stopped dead when she heard a creaking from somewhere on the main floor.

_Someone was awake._

Every muscle in Pansy's body tensed, and she raised her wand slowly. This was unexpected. This was a hitch in her plan. This was bad.

She inched slowly towards the kitchen door. _She would stun them and wipe their memory if it was not Hermione, and if it was her, she would kill her on the spot_, Pansy told herself. But that did little to ease the panic that she felt – it had come as a shock to her system, and her heart was pounding far too hard, and all the guilt and emotion she had felt about killing Hermione came back in a wave.

Pansy pushed the door open swiftly – none of that easing it open gently; that would only give anyone who might be looking a chance to put themselves on their guard.

The corridor was empty.

But there was a light issuing from underneath a door.

Pansy moved towards it slowly, pressing herself against the wall the door was on so that she might give herself a few extra moments of safety if someone happened to open it. The noise had definitely come from that room – and now that Pansy stopped to listen, she could hear that the creaking was rapid and rhythmic, like something heavy rocking against a squeaking floor, or perhaps a bad bed spring being pushed up and down.

Pansy swallowed, her stomach twisting, then pressed one eye against the crack between the door and frame. It gave her just a fraction of an inch through which to look into the room, but that was all she needed.

What Pansy saw were two pairs of bare legs, splayed out on a sofa. She jolted back automatically in surprise, then pressed her eye against the crack again, her heart rate climbing ever higher.

Creamy legs spread. Freckled legs in between them.

_Oh dear God._

Pansy's mouth twisted and she would have laughed, if she hadn't been so aware of how important it was to remain silent. _At three in the morning, Granger?_And she hadn't expected Hermione to _ever_ find someone who would get into bed with her…

Pansy should have left then. This was beyond unexpected – this was a fundamental problem that she couldn't have predicted. She hadn't known that Hermione Granger was living with someone. She _certainly_ hadn't known that she was living with the sort of someone who would be awake in the small hours of the morning, doing… _that._

But leaving was not an option. Pansy had gotten this far, and she didn't want to go through it again later, nor did she want to stay in the house until Hermione and whoever she was with decided to fall asleep. And trying to appeal to the Death Eaters, saying that she had not expected this, would be futile. They would not see her side of things if she didn't kill Granger. They would simply see failure.

A moan came from inside and Pansy ran her tongue slowly around her lips.

She would have to modify her plan. She would have to modify her whole _modus operandi_ – everything she had ever done had been about being streamlined, undetected and undetectable. But since she had come across this unexpected situation, she would do best to react in an unexpected way, wouldn't she? Of course she would.

Pansy readied her wand, and stepped into position at the door. She rested one hand lightly on the knob, took a few seconds to steady herself, then flung it open, not even waiting until she could see her targets before the spells were out of her mouth.

"_Incarcerous! Incarcerous!_"

Ropes flew out of Pansy's wand, and they wrapped themselves around the two bodies on the sofa before Pansy even had the chance to register who they were. And when she did register, she let out a snort of laughter.

Hermione was underneath, stark naked, her face flushed and busy brown hair (_exactly the same as it had been in school_) even more of a mess than usual. Pansy's spell had caught her arms against her sides, and she struggled against them violently. But Pansy was far less interested in her than in the person on top of her.

Judging from the freckles, and what Pansy had observed of Hermione in school, she had expected her partner to be Ron Weasley. And that would have suited Pansy just fine – if she had killed Ron too, she would have received double the accolades for her accomplishment, she was sure. Harry Potter's two closest friends, dead in one swoop – that would have been good for Pansy, yes.

But it wasn't Ron.

It was his little sister.

"Well, well, well, Ginny Weasley, isn't it?" Pansy asked, arching an eyebrow and shutting the door behind her. Now that she was here, she intended to enjoy this – she was smiling internally. This suited her particular brand of sadism better than killing ever could. "Never took you for a lesbian, Granger."

"How- the _Hell_–" Ginny was struggling both against her own ropes and – visibly – against her fear. She _must_ know what was to come. Hermione clearly did, for the flush had drained quickly from her face, replaced by a look of sheer terror.

"Did I find you? I have my sources. Did I get in? I have my ways." Pansy lolled against the door, twirling her wand between her fingers. "Never took you for the type to stay up fucking until three in the morning – you, I mean, Granger. I took Weasley for the type."

"What do you want?" Hermione asked, and even through her dread, she was trying to sound defiant.

"Well, I was sent to kill you, Granger," Pansy said offhandedly – it was easier to say it out loud than it had been to think it. "But this is _much_ more fun…"

"Don't you lay a hand on her!" Ginny shouted. She bucked against her ropes, and Pansy felt a little thrill go through her – she wasn't bad-looking, and watching a naked, bound girl struggle was at least a _bit_ pleasing under any circumstances. Pansy grabbed Ginny by her long red hair and pulled her to the ground, where she landed with an undignified crash.

Without Ginny on top of her, Hermione looked even more vulnerable, and Pansy was getting a bit breathless. Murder had always been a clinical thing before, but this… oh, this was going to be _so_ much better…

"So, Granger," she purred, sitting down on the sofa on top of Hermione's legs and leaning over her. "Are you and Miss Weasley a couple now? That's cute. I'm sure her big brother is pleased…"

"Please," Hermione said quietly. She was working her hands furiously at her sides, clearly trying to pull them out of the ropes, but the knots held fast. "Please, whatever you're going to do…"

Pansy put a hand over her mouth, then used one fingertip to circle her swollen nipple. Hermione closed her eyes, and beneath Pansy's hand, she could feel her face twist into a grimace.

"At least I caught you in a nice position…" Pansy purred sweetly. "I thought I was going to come in, kill you in your sleep, and skip out again, but this is much better. Don't you think so too? What about you?" she added, glancing down at Ginny. "You like this?"

"No!" Ginny cried. She was also struggling with her ropes, which chafed across her thin, toned arms and stomach. "Get off her!"

"You aren't as ugly as you were in school anymore, you know, Granger," Pansy continued, turning away from Ginny. She pinched Hermione's nipple, then her hand slid down her stomach and she placed it in between her thighs, which were already bound together, and which clamped down fiercely when Pansy's hand probed between them. But try as Hermione might, Pansy worked her way into the crux of her thighs, and felt her own body tighten in response when she felt heat and wetness on her fingers.

"That's pretty nice, Granger," she murmured, sliding her finger between Hermione's labia and pressing hard against her clit. Hermione's whole body bucked up. "Yeah, you think so too… of course you do…" She rubbed a little harder, and Hermione moaned against her hand.

"Don't!" Ginny's voice was tearful, but Pansy didn't spare her a glance. Having her watching was good, but she didn't want to waste energy on her. All her focus was on Hermione.

Pansy slowly straddled Hermione's legs, pressing her crotch against Hermione's bare knee and feeling wetness seeping into the fabric of her trousers. She ground against it while she searched for Hermione's opening.

"Please don't," Hermione whispered against her hand, and she sounded so delightfully pitiful. "Please… oh God… oh _God_!"

Pansy's finger slipped into her, and Hermione's back arched and her muscles tightened around the finger. The flush was rising on her face again and her legs moved apart ever so slightly.

"Enjoying that, Mudblood?" Pansy whispered, and though Hermione shook her head furiously, Pansy could feel her throbbing beneath her fingers.

Throbbing the same way Pansy was. _Oh_, that was good. She lifted her hand from Hermione's mouth and grasped at her own breasts instead, kneading and massaging them, and Hermione didn't make a noise. Her eyes were closed and her breathing coming in desperate little hitched gasps. Ginny was on the floor, letting out a string of profanity that Pansy was only half-hearing as she rammed her fingers into Hermione over and over again and ground herself against her leg. Pansy pushed the heel of her hand against Hermione's clit – _hot, swollen, throbbing_ – and Hermione's body trembled.

"You- like that- don't you, Mudblood?" Pansy managed breathlessly, and this time, Hermione let out a whimper.

"_Yes._"

And then there was a flood of hot liquid on Pansy's hand and Hermione's body was shaking and writhing on the sofa, and Pansy didn't think she had ever seen or felt anything so incredibly _hot._

When Hermione relaxed, there was silence. Ginny had gone quiet. Pansy stilled herself, still throbbing, but preferring the sense of satisfaction from seeing Hermione so thoroughly humiliated to the satisfaction that an orgasm would bring. Hermione was biting down on her lips, tears dripping down her cheeks.

"Well… that was wonderful, wasn't it?" Pansy said at last, and her voice was sugar-sweet. "Not a bad thing to happen right before you die, hmm?"

"Please don't kill me," Hermione said quietly. She didn't sound tearful, as wet as her eyes were. She wasn't even begging.

Guilt began to twinge in Pansy's stomach again. Maybe it was because Hermione wasn't begging – that just felt _wrong_. Anyone in this situation ought to beg, but of course, Hermione Granger wouldn't. _Damn her for making things complicated._

Pansy stood up slowly and began to back towards the door, her wand up, looking at the two women tied up in front of her.

_No._

"No."

She wasn't ready to kill them. Not yet.

Hermione's eyes widened, and relief appeared on both their faces, mixed with all the other emotions already on them.

But Pansy didn't give them too much of a chance to enjoy the relief.

"I think," she said softly, "I'd have more fun with you if you were both alive. And I don't think," she added, her lips beginning to turn up into a smile, "that the Death Eaters would begrudge me taking a couple prisoners. After all I've done for them, I think I'm owed a reward. And you two…" She smiled widely, for everything was falling into place into her mind, and this was _so_, so much better than the prospect of killing Hermione Granger had been, "you two will make a very… very good reward for me. You two are exactly what I want."

)O(

_Fin_


End file.
